ReaderxSherlock - STONE
by xGirlinaBoxx
Summary: Continuation of ReaderxSherlock - Dream. Your Director has told you you've been requested to become a Legal Attaché in London, England. You were already happy enough but then you find out you're working alongside the man you met in London almost a month ago. Things take a turn for mysterious with constant mentioning of a person called M. But who are they? And why do they want you?
1. 1 - Legat

**ATTENTION: THIS IS A CONTINUATION OF ****_ReaderxSherlock - Dream_****. IF YOU HAVE NOT READ IT, PLEASE DO SO SO THIS WILL MAKE MORE SENSE. ** s/9590279/1/ReaderxSherlock-Dream** Thanks! :3**

* * *

**Chapter 1 - ****_Legat_**

"(L/N), I'd like to speak with you." the Director of the FBI calls to you as you pass her office's door.

You gnaw at your lip as you step into the room. What did you do? Had she heard you talking to your teammates yesterday about wanting to request a couple weeks off for vacation and is going to chastise you for it? You'd been anxious to get back to London ever since your last meeting with Sherlock three weeks ago.

"Yes?" you ask, afraid of her reason for wanting you.

"Please close the door and have a seat." she smiles as she gestures toward the chair in front of her desk.

You comply and cross your legs nervously as you sit.

"You've been very helpful these last weeks, solving many cases; cold and fresh..."

You release a breath you didn't know you were holding. Good, no scolding. Yet.

You think back to the second dream you shared with Sherlock. Before you fell asleep you accessed the FBI's files and collected as many of the previously closed cases as you could and presented each one to the detective. And he solved everyone you challenged him with. Why aren't there more consulting detectives in the world?

Your attention turns back to the Director. "...and I think it would be appropriate to expand your work across seas. How does assisting the Legal Attachés in London, England sound?"

You could leap out of your chair from the sheer amazement and joy that overwhelms you but manage to keep your calm. "That would be an honor."

But soon your excitement is tucked away when a nagging thought barges into your mind: You're being accepted into something based on a false accusation. That accusation being that _you_ solved all of those cold cases. When really at the _most_ you helped. What if they'll expect more of you and you don't meet that standard?

The Director's words put you at ease; "I'm glad to hear that because you were personally requested. It appears your work through the previous years has caught their attention and it was your most recent accomplishments that pushed their decision.

"You will, however, spend most of your time working with the local police at New Scotland Yard. They've been needing quite a bit of assistance lately and our Legal Attachés have too much work on their hands to help all the time. And that's actually what you were requested to assist with so it all works out nicely." She grins.

"If you choose to accept this transfer you will fly out next week on Monday and be gone for most likely a year. what do you think?"

You are ready to shout _YES_ but hold back; you should think about this. Are you ready to transfer to a different country for a whole year? And yet it would look really bad to say no when you were_personally_ requested. ...Who requested you?...doesn't matter. All that matters it that they asked for _you_ and you should respect that. You've always wanted to become a Legat and now the offer is sitting right in front of you. Waiting for you to take it.

You slowly nod your head and part your lips into a smile. "I think that would work."

The Director mirrors your expression. "Great. There will be a private jet waiting for you at six o'clock on Monday morning. Please make sure your things are in order by then."

You give a short nod and exit the room with a lighter step than when you had entered.

After the door clicks behind you the Director turns in her chair and dials a number on her phone. "...Yes, this is Thompson...Yes, she will be there Monday. I don't know why you need her so badly, **M**, but please tell me _they_ are safe and sound...What! That wasn't part of the deal!...Alright, I'll inform the Legal Attaché office...Bye."

She turns off the device and sighs as she rubs her hands across her face. "I hope (F/N) knows what she's doing."


	2. 2 - Coincidence?

**A/N: I'm currently writing this in a notebook of mine (that I take _everywhere_). I've written up to the beginning of chapter 5 and roughly know what will happen in it and possibly the next chapter. So hopefully I'll be able to post these with a reasonable amount of space between them :) ...butyouneverknowwithme**

**Chapter 2 - ****_Coincidence..?_**

You exhale rather dramatically as you step through the doors of Scotland Yard. Policemen scurry about the area as you walk toward the office of the Detective Inspector, whom you were told to see this morning.

You don't know what to think of the Legal Attaché system. Everything you thought you knew about it is quickly deteriorating in your mind.

When you got off the plane, you were told that the person who requested you paid a year's rent for you at an apartme-no. You'd have to get used to using British terms. Or at least the obvious ones- a _flat_ on Montague Street. Not that you're complaining, you're just wondering why they didn't give you a place closer to the Legal Attaché office. Montague Street isn't far away, it's just not a block away. You didn't even have time to unpack before you had to rush to Scotland Yard.

They also gave you a new cell phone- grr, _mobile_ phone- to use in England. But that one you're not too surprised about because if you were to use your own phone, your bill would be through the roof, and it would be very vital to have some contact with other people. You hadn't expected the small favor, but you accepted it with gratitude, nonetheless.

You enter the small office and find the silver haired inspector speaking to someone on his phone. He acknowledges your presence and hurriedly ends his conversation. You exchange introductions as you shake each other's hands.

"Sorry, I heard you were coming but I didn't know you'd be working with _me_," he, Greg Lestrade, apologizes as he gestures for you to take a seat. "What exactly will you be doing while you're here?"

"I'll be overseeing your word and assisting you with whatever you need."

"Ah, well would you mind coming with me to a crime scene? I just called someone who's going to meet me there in twenty minutes but maybe this way you can meet some people. You know, get a feel for what it's like here."

"Sure, that'd be great!"

"Okay, then just come with me." He motions for you to follow him out the door.

* * *

You step into the brightly-lit bedroom and almost sigh at the sight of a body. It's always the same. New body, new crime to solve, life goes on. All the same, boring cycle.

The body is a middle-aged-looking man who's laying on his stomach against a hard-wood floor. there's no blood so he probably died of either suffocation, strangulation, or poisoning. About a dozen other men and women stand around the corpse, taking pictures, collecting evidence, and so on.

"When did you say that person was coming?" you ask turning to Lestrade who just finished speaking with another police officer.

"He'll be here any minute now." he says while glancing at his watch. "But, while we wait, why don't I introduce you to some of the people you'll be working with?"

He leads you to two people who are conversing in the corner of the room; clearly very intent on what they're talking about but Lestrade interrupts them anyway. "This is Special Agent (L/N). (L/N), this is Sergeant Donovan and Anderson." He smiles as he directs his next sentence to the pair. "She's from the FBI and will be here for a year so pleas help her feel welcome."

"Oh, what's an FBI agent doing here?" the man, Anderson, questions while his eyes scan over you with suspicion.

"She's apart of the Legal Attachés. She'll mostly be overseeing our work and helping when needed."

"Well if you're here we won't need any help from the Freak." the tanned female, Donovan, remarks curtly, looking at you with an expressionless face.

Freak. Why does that remind you of something? _What_ does that remind you of?

She then replaces her previously stoic features with that of a scowl. "Look who showed up as if on cue." she retorts with her gaze set at the air above your head.

"Pleasant seeing you too, Donovan." a voice like velvet streams from behind you.

That voice. That deep, almost monotone voice. It's so familiar. So soothing...

**So ****_very_**** familiar.**

You spin around on your heel and meet the steely eyes of the towering man before you. "Sh-Sherlock!?" you gasp.

For a short moment Sherlock displays the same emotion that's overwhelming you but quickly tucks it away behind a smirk. "Hello, Miss (L/N)."

"Wait," Lestrade shakes his head. "you know each other?"

"We've encountered each other three times-once without even talking. I guess you could say that. We know each other." you explain, not averting your stare form Sherlock's.

"How did y-"

"So what's different about this body?" Sherlock interrupts Lestrade before he can finish his question.

The DI inhales a deep breath of air as to collect his thoughts before speaking. "There isn't anything different about the _body_ but this is the first one to leave behind what killed 'im."

Lestrade turns to Anderson who places a small bag into the inspector's extended hand. He unwraps the plastic and slips out a capsule that appears that it contains painkillers. "This was sitting on his nightstand. Every tablet in here is coated with cyanide; the same poison that killed the other three victims."

"So none of the others left a bottle?" Sherlock asks while crouching over the corpse.

"No, this is the first useful piece of evidence we've found."

"Ah, yes, always overlooking the obvious." Sherlock mutters.

"What?"

"Nothing"

The consulting detective requests to see photos of the other bodies when your phone vibrates in your pocket. You look around to make sure you can step away for a moment and read the text.

**BLOCKED NUMBER**  
CHECK THE SHOES -M

You stare at the message for a moment and ponder whether you should comply with this request. Is it a wrong number? But if it isn't, how do they know what you're doing? And who's **M**?

"Lestrade" you finally breathe.

"Yeah?" He faces you as he asks.

"Have you examined his shoes?"

Lestrade's brow furrows as he tries to understand your inquiry. Sherlock hears the question and yanks off the dead man's brown boot.

"Nothing out of the ordinary." he mumbles more to himself then to the group around. "Size 8. New but there's already indentation in the heels. Bad posture. Made by **_BANDE_** -ah!"

"What?" the DI bends down to attempt to see what Sherlock's found.

"**_BANDE_** is a locally owned shoe factory just 20 kilometers outside of London." he explains, sill holding the boot. "They opened two months ago and only take personal requests so they're not very known yet. But that isn't what caught my eye."

He turns the shoe and points at the seam of the heel. "Every stitching is professionally sewn except for the heel."

"What if they made a mistake?" you guess.

"No, if they had made a mistake they would've tried to cover it up with more thread. This person removed the original stitching and then tried to replicate it using the same thread."

"But why would someone undo the stitching just to sew it back again?" asks Lestrade as he crosses his arms.

"They were hiding something." Sherlock taps the back of the boot with a gloved finger. "Lestrade, may borrow your knife?"

Lestrade hands him a small blade with which the detective begins sawing at the seams along the shoe's heel. Once all the threads are cut, the bottom opens like a flap, revealing inside the sole a short, plastic bag containing a white powder. And by everyone's reaction, you all know what it is. Cocaine.

"Well, we better pay the **_BANDE_** company a visit, then." Sherlock announces with a smirk.

* * *

You press your back against the cold, steel wall and check the ammo in your gun. You stand beside Sherlock, waiting for Lestrade's cue to charge into the building. And you're getting quite impatient.

You're checking your ammo again when you hear the command and follow Sherlock and the others inside. "Police!" someone shouts.

Three men rais their hands from the table they were working at while five others sprint to the back of the warehouse with policemen chasing them.

As the people are moved into cars, you scan over all of the found cocaine, estimating how much there is. By the amount of drugs in each bag you guess there's about a gram in each packet. After counting, you conclude there is at least 6 kilograms of cocaine. How they managed to keep that much hidden you will never know.

After a quick sweep of the area and interrogations, the cyanide poisonings were confirmed to be **_BANDE_**'s doings. Apparently the four who were murdered had been caught stealing from the "stash" and couldn't be trusted anymore.

You step next to Sherlock and Lestrade as the packs are moved into a single container.

"You know you don't have to come for this part of the case." Lestrade reminds the detective as he waves a file off with a woman.

"Yes, but it's always fun seeing the end of a case. Don't you think?" Sherlock gives a crooked smile. "The court case is more often than not too _dull_ to endure."

Lestrade sighs what you interpret as a tired laugh. "Well, I assume you know your way out. There's nothing else you need to help with." He turns to you. "(L/N), you can leave if you want to. You probably still have a lot of unpacking to do, eh?"

You smile and thank him as you pivot and jog to catch up with Sherlock. You have a few questions for the world's only consulting detective.

**A/N: I didn't put your calculations in here to make you feel smart. There will be a reason for knowing the weight of all the drugs. ;)**


	3. 3 - Confusion

**Chapter 3 - ****_Confusion_**

"Hey, Sherlock!" you call to the dark-haired man ahead of you. He doesn't stop or turn to acknowledge you but he doesn't speed up either. You soon reach his side and continue walking together.

"So, you work for Scotland Yard?" you ask while tightening your scarf.

"I work _with_ Scotland Yard." he corrects. "But Lestrade is the only person I can trust. And the only one who will put up with me." He breathes the last sentence but you hear it and offer a smirk.

"How long?" You clear your throat. "How long have you worked with Lestrade?"

"Four years" he answers curtly.

You stare down at your feet as you continue your stroll. Your path is paved with white and you shift your gaze to the sky. Thick clouds cover the shining sun, foreboding more snow.

You fidget with the fabric around your neck as the sudden quiet becomes uncomfortable. "A little cold out here, huh?" you finally inquire.

Sherlock hums in response as his head turns away.

You exhale a gulp of air. The breath leaves your mouth in a puff of smoke as its heat is quickly relinquished by the frigid air. "I'm just trying to make small talk." you murmur.

"Well it's not needed." he snaps. "Why point out the obvious when people can see it for themselves?" The detective stabs his fists into his pockets.

Why is he suddenly so tense? You didn't say anything to set him off. Did you?

More silence ensues and you refrain from making any other comments. You then find something actually worth talking about. "Where are we going?"

Sherlock sighs. "A main road to get a cab. It isn't that long of a walk and the cold is tolerable today."

You tread along the thin layer of snow without speaking another word to each other for thirty minutes until you finally reach a busy street. Sherlock hails a taxi but before he can get in you ask him something you soon regret even mentioning.

"Where are you going?" He raises a questioning eyebrow and you quickly add, "-I mean, I just want to know if you'd be heading the direction of my street. Y'know, so we'd save money and time..." You barely finish your apologetic babble before looking away to hide your now flushed cheeks.

He pauses a few moments with his hand resting on the door of the waiting car. "I'd actually like to ride alone. I need some time to think." He notices your defeated expression. "...Sorry" he mutters under his breath.

After watching the cab drive away you could swear you saw Sherlock tuck something into his coat. You dismiss the thought and mentally kick yourself.

* * *

You untie your scarf and slip off your coat as you step inside the warm café. It had begun snowing and you didn't want to stand outside and freeze so you decided to call a cab and buy a coffee while you wait.

You seat yourself at a small table next to the front window and quietly sip the steaming liquid from your white cup.

You're lost in staring out at the descending flakes when you notice someone sitting on the opposite end of your table. You turn and see a smiling man across from you. It's obviously a fake smile but the rest of his attire clearly isn't. He's wearing a gray, clearly tailored suit to fit his round figure. His dark hair is neatly combed with not a strand out of place. But something else about him catches your attention; the way his eyes gleam in such a familiar way. Where had you seen that before?

You scan the rest of the café and realize it's completely vacant of any other person. Just you and this stranger.

"Good evening, Special Agent (L/N)." he purrs, ripping the empty air.

"Who are you? How do you know my name?" you question calmly.

"It doesn't matter who I am. What matters is who you are and how you are acquainted with Sherlock Holmes."

"You seem to already know who I am." You glare at the posh man and he grins.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"We work together." you huff.

"But we both know there's more to it than that." He flicks a small notebook from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and begins fingering through the pages. "_Three_ times you've encountered him in the past? And now a fourth. This is your first day in London and you already know the man who doesn't take time to get to know anyone." He leans forward and folds his hands onto the table. "Now, is this still strictly a professional relationship?"

"I believe that's none of your business."

"It could be."

"No, it really couldn't."

He straightens and you take the second to swallow a drink from your now lukewarm coffee.

"I'm willing to pay you a reasonable sum of money if you would update me on what Sherlock's doing. Nothing that would make you uncomfortable, just how he's getting along and such-"

"No"

"I haven't even mentioned a figure."

"I don't want your money. I'm not a spy."

He sighs as he tries to produce a smile but fails to raise the corners of his lips as your scowl burns into him.

"You were given a living space on Montague Street, yes?" he inquires while rising from his chair and straightening his suit. "You might want to 'meet the neighbors' as some would put it." He gives an insincere smile as he whisks a black umbrella from beneath the table and casually walks outside and opens the material against the light fall of snow.

You drain the last bit of darkness from your cup just as your taxi pulls up to the curb. This day is getting more confusing by the minute.

**~Sherlock's POV~**

I stare out the cab's window, pondering all the information that's been thrown at me today.

(F/N)(L/N). She's here. Obviously still with the FBI judging from how she was referred to as "agent". She must be here with the Legal Attaché, but why she's working with Lestrade, much less Scotland Yard, I have yet to learn.

I thought that when I met her she was just another passing figure. Like another case. There's the enjoyment, the thrill of it all, but once it's over, there's no where else to go but forward.

And now she's here. I can't believe the thought never crossed my mind that she would join the Legal Attaché. She is intelligent but I didn't think she was _that_ intelligent.

The car encounters a hole in the road and I'm soon reminded of the item in my pea-coat's pocket as I'm shaken. Its small weight is suddenly multiplied to that of a rock's. It's never came with guilt before, so what's different this time? Is it because it's stolen? Why would that make a difference? It's larceny either way I get it. Lestrade knows about my...habits but as long as I don't give him a reason to arrest me, he's too desperate to get rid of me. ...No, I won't even **consider** that possibility. It could **not** be because of **her**. She is just like any other woman.

The can stops at the end of Montague Street and I pay the driver before striding to my flat. I'm a couple yards away when I see a woman with (h/c) hair and wearing a (f/c) coloured coat hop up the steps to my destination. She flicks out a key.

Great. Another neighbour to complain-Wait. Is that-?

**A/N:** **There's a reason for why Sherlock was so agitated or "touchy", if you will. ;)**


	4. 4 - Neighbor

**Chapter 4 - ****_Neighbor_**

You fumble with the small key as you insert it into the door's knob. You twist the metal in the lock and move to push open the door but are suddenly paralyzed. In the reflection of the glossy wood you see an almost colossal figure rise behind you. Your immediate reaction is to whip around and face your opposer. Before you can even think about your action, you strike the man across his face. He raises a gloved hand to his now clearly stinging cheek and you finally get to see who he is. You feel an enormous rush of heat to your head as realization sweeps over you.

"Oh my g-Sherlock! I'm _so_ sorry! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. It's not the first time I've been slapped." His frank tone doesn't help erase your worry.

Sherlock attempts lowering his hand from his face but quickly replaces it as the bitter wind beats against the wound. He sucks in a breath through clenched teeth and you immediately take notice.

"Are you sure you're fine? Let me look at it."

Despite his protests, you drag Sherlock through the entry way out of the snow. With more force than you intended using, you peel his hand away from his face, revealing two slashes across his cheek. And though it isn't enough to worry about, your eyes widen when they meet the thin trail of blood streaming from one of the cuts. The scarlet stands out vividly against his creamy white skin and you cry, "Y-You're bleeding!"

"Clearly"

"But this-this is all my fault! I've-I'll go get a towel!" you shout in a flurry as you dart up the stairs of the apar-_flat_. You know what? This isn't a time to be worrying about "correct terms"!

You rip open every cardboard box and container in your living room until you at last uncover your package of towels. You drown one in your small sink and race back down the steps. But once you catch Sherlock in your sight again, your feet slow to a more casual pace.

You begin dabbing the cuts with the damp flannel and at last find something to say to break the awkward silence. "Why are you here, anyway? I mean, if you were right behind me, you obviously were going to enter the same door I was."

"You're not the only person who lives in this building." he retorts, staring at the opposite wall.

You finish cleaning the red from the side of his face and fully realize what he said. "Oh," you breathe as you lower the cloth. "I'm sorry, I-I wasn't thinking." You scramble for words. "Umm which flat do you live in?"

"204" he barely mutters as he pivots on his heel and nearly sprints up the steps.

"204?" you repeat. Well, now you know the meaning of that cryptic text you received in the cab: BEWARE OF THE MAN IN 204 -M You live on the side of the building in flat 205, so there's only one room surrounding you. But what could be so bad about Sherlock Holmes?

* * *

You ceremoniously wipe the back of your hand across your forehead as you gaze at your finished work. You arranged all of the furniture in your small flat and emptied every one of your boxes. Of course you didn't move _all_ your things to London, but you brought enough for a year, and that was plenty to make it a job of unpacking.

You glance at your clock hanging against the tan wall. 9:45. Well at least you have a bed to sleep in now. You throw on your (f/c) pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt and slide under your blankets. You close your tired eyes and fall into a blissful slumber. Or what _would_ have been blissful if you weren't woken by the sound of an eruption two hour later. The source of the noise came from behind your wall. The one that connects with Sherlock's room...

You leap off of your mattress and would have continued to the door if the roar of heavy footfalls from the hall hadn't halted you. The wood nearly splinters in Sherlock's door as a thick fist pounds against it, making more uproar than the explosion had. The door opens with a click and Sherlock slides his goggles above his eyebrows.

"Mr. Holmes," the raspy words of the landlord rips the suspenseful silence. "I've told you before, you _may __**not**_ house _any_ kind of explosives in this building!"

"They're not _explosives_, they are controlled _experiments_." the detective corrects as he folds his arms.

"Controlled, my arse!" he spits, raising his tone but not the volume of his voice.

"Look, I just spilled two chemicals that don't belong together. It won't happen again."

"That's what you said last time! I'm adding this to your rent. There are other people living under this roof and I **will not** have you burning it down on top of them. So either conduct your _experiments_elsewhere of move out!"

With that, the red-faced landlord stomped down the stairs of the flat and you can't prevent the smirk that forms on your lips. At least your time here won't be boring.

**Two ways you could have caused Sherlock's face to bleed: ****1 ****You could've slapped him with your key still in your hand. ****2 ****Your nails could've sliced his skin. Just pick whichever you think would be most plausible for you.**


	5. 5 - Brother

**Chapter 5 - ****_Brother_**

It's been two days since that night Sherlock's experiment lost control. He hasn't been to Scotland Yard so you haven't seen him at all. Of course, it hasn't been that long but you can't help but wonder how he has been, if the small explosion caused much damage or not. And the fact that you live right next to each other is a surprise.

You want to do something for him; you try to convince yourself it's because you want to be a good neighbor. But what can you do? You could bake something. Everyone likes baked goods, don't they? Maybe something simple, like coo-biscuits! Even if he doesn't like them, it's the thought that counts...right?

After a short trip to the shop, you return with enough ingredients to bake several different types of biscuits. It's safer to make several flavors than just one and find out he doesn't like that kind.

You gather all of your mixing bowls and cups and begin adding the first items of food.

As you're stirring the third batch you finally realize something odd about the situation. Or rather something _not_ in the situation. You haven't heard a single sound from Sherlock's flat today. For any other person this would be normal but this is Sherlock. The only silence you've gotten altogether is about half-an-hour. He could just be gone (you _have_ been at Scotland Yard all morning).

Speaking of Scotland Yard, Lestrade mentioned something quite peculiar the other day. He was just finishing filing the report of the _BANDE_ case when you overheard him ask something about the 5.9 kilograms of cocaine. You thought you counted _6_ kilograms. You might've miscalculated but you even double-checked.

The alarm of the oven pulls you back from your train of thoughts and you slip on your oven mitts. You can't get distracted when there are biscuits that can burn.

* * *

You shift in your shoes and stare blankly at the porcelain numbers of 204. The plate in your hands feels a lot heavier than it was five minutes ago. He's probably not even here. You contemplate walking back into your flat when suddenly a voice emits from behind the wood. Your shoulders drop in a sigh. There goes that excuse.

After much consultation with your mind and will you raise your fist and tap the door.

You hear a few muffled noises from the other side the entrance and soon after, it flies open. Sherlock stands in the doorway, a silk blue dressing gown draped lazily over his shoulders and arms. Beneath the sleek fabric he's wearing a black, button down and black trousers. If he wasn't clothed in his formal clothes under his robe, you would have thought he'd just woke up.

When he first opened the door he glared out at whoever he was to see, but once his eyes met your downcast ones, his expression softened just the slightest. It was such a faint change that someone had to pay very close attention to it to notice. You, however, did not.

"Er, umm..." you begin stuttering. "I thought you might like some co-biscuits."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Because we're neighbors and it's a nice thing to do." You glance up at him but quickly lose your nerve. "You don't have to take them if you don't want to. I can just leave-"

"Sherlock, let her in."

You freeze on the spot, eyes wide. You've heard that voice before but you can't get yourself to believe what your brain is screaming at you. You don't _want_ to believe it.

"I need to get going anyway." the unmistakeable tone continues.

A plump form rises from a chair behind Sherlock as he tugs on his coat and flicks an umbrella from beside his former seat. He steps up to the entry and grins at you. "Pleasure seeing you again, Miss (L/N). Good afternoon." He swipes a biscuit from your plate before striding down the hall.

You blink at the empty space now on the styrofoam and finally regain your speech. "Why was _he_ in your flat?" You turn up to Sherlock's eyes. "How does he know you?"

The detective heaves a sigh as he watches the retreating figure of the rude man. "He's my _brother_." He spoke the word as if he hated the very syllables of it.

"Your brother!?"

"Yes, Mycroft. He likes to poke his nose into others' things just because he's apart of the British Government. Or rather, he _is_ the Government. Why are you so surprised?"

Mycroft. M. _M_. Could he be **M**? He did know who you are and where you were that day he first confronted you. And he's with the government. _Is_ the government, according to Sherlock. It's plausible.

"I-I just assumed you didn't have a family." you say looking down again.

"First mistake."

"What?"

"You _assumed_. Never assume anything until you have the facts to prove it."

You suddenly feel the weight in your arms leave. Your head snaps up just in time to see Sherlock, your plate in his hand, stick a biscuit between his teeth as he closes the door.

You smirk and slide your hands into your pockets as you stroll back into your flat.

**What could have happened to the cocaine? Did you ****_really_**** just miscount?**


	6. 6 - Purple

**Chapter 6 - ****_Purple_**

**~Two weeks later**

Over the last couple of weeks, Scotland Yard has been extremely busy. You even hopped between detectives for a few days and Sherlock came for some of Lestrade's cases. You guess the holidays must be the ideal time for robberies and murders.

This particular day you were working with Lestrade, and Sherlock was called to help with the case. You personally were perplexed by the mystery but the consulting detective claimed to know who the killer was and only needed to see the body to confirm his theory.

You step into St. Bart's Hospital and follow Sherlock and Lestrade to the morgue. Sherlock is short and frank with the mortician even though she seems to want to talk to him more.

As Sherlock inspects the body, you decide to break the silence by striking up a conversation with the light-brown haired girl. "I don't believe we've met before. I'm (F/N)." you smile.

"I'm Molly," she beams. "I guess you wouldn't know me. Don't get many visitors down here with the stiffs." You laugh, hoping you were supposed to.

"Lestrade," Sherlock calls, _thankfully_ interrupting your suddenly awkward conversation. "I believe the woman's gardener is the man you're looking for. Now, if that's all you need, my work here is done." WIth a _swish_ of his coat, he strides out of the room.

You look to the Detective Inspector and he silently nods to you, _You can go, too, if you want_. You catch up with Sherlock seconds later outside.

As you begin strolling beside him, you glance at his suit beneath his pea-coat. All you ever see him wear is black and white. Does he have any colors?

...Maybe you could change that.

"Do you wear anything other than black and white? You could at least wear a colored scarf or something..." You gaze at the snow along the pavement and suddenly for a wide grin.

"You're coming with me." you announce as yo seize the detective's sleeve.

"What? Where are you taking me!?" he shouts as he tries to free his arm from your grasp but does not succeed.

"We're going to buy you some clothes with color!"

* * *

"No"

You had been in the shop for nearly half-an-hour and Sherlock had declined every piece of clothing you showed him. Ruling out over three-fourths of the entire building. You had grown very tired and decided to lighten up the situation a little.

"What about this?" you ask with a grin as you lift up a bright pink shirt.

He simply stares at you with a blank expression. "Absolutely not. I'd be wearing _violet_ before I even _touched_ pink."

You raise a devious eyebrow. "_Would_ you wear violet?"

"No!"

"Well you need to try on _something_. Come on!"

You shove a shirt into his arms, drag him to the dressing rooms, and almost push him through the door. You wait two minutes before you call, "You done yet?"

"Are you really asking me to model for you something _I_ would wear?"

"It's nice to get a second opinion."

"But isn't it _my_ opinion that matters?"

"Oh just show me the shirt!"

The door slowly opens and Sherlock steps out with a frown across his face, obviously annoyed about the situation. The deep purple shirt forms smoothly around his slim figure; its only creases being the stretched fabric connected to the buttons. The dark shade blends nicely with his almost-black hair. Altogether he looks gorgeous in it and you find yourself staring longer than needed.

"That's it, I'm not getting it." he declares quickly as he slams the door in front of him.

"Why not? I think it looks great on you. I like it."

"And that's my reason."

"What?"

"You...like it."

You blink. Is Sherlock Holmes...embarrassed? "Why should that matter? Would you wear it or not?"

There's a few moments of silence and soon Sherlock emerges from the dressing room, the purple shirt hanging over his arm. "Fine, I'll buy it. But _only_ this."

* * *

Upon exiting the building you discover it's already dark outside. You check your watch, 7:02. How is it that late already? It didn't even feel that long while you were scouring for clothes. Time machines must be disguised a shops now.

You're about to run up to the edge of the pavement and hail a cab but think twice when you catch a glimpse of all the twinkling lights decorating the buildings. It's barely December and the city's already lit so bright.

"Why don't we walk home?" you suggest as wrap your scarf tighter around your neck. It's more of a statement rather than a question.

"Why? There's no point in walking out in the cold weather." he huffs as a puff of smoke emerges from his mouth.

"There is if there are Christmas decorations to admire." His hard expression doesn't lift. "Just this once. Please?"

He sighs but doesn't shake your hand away when you grab hold of his elbow and stroll through the shimmering streets.

"Have you put up any decorations yet?" you ask after a long period of silence.

"No, and I will not be doing so. I don't see why people waste so much money and electricity for one day of the year. It's stupid." He begins walking faster and you almost trip.

"But like you said, it's for one day of the year. Not all 365 of them." You give a small laugh but he doesn't see the humor in it. "You need to lighten up. Life isn't as dismal as you act like it is. There's good in every situation."

And as if on cue, little snowflakes begin to descend from the black sky and pave your path back to Montague Street.

A CCTV camera _whirrs_ in the distance as it zooms in on your two fleeting figures. And in front of a monitor a man watches and forms a sinister grin.

**"There's good in every situation." Something you should remember later! ;)**

**A/N: I at least want to introduce ****_some_**** of the other characters from the show. They may not be seen more but you'll know they're there. And I know there's been a lot of fluff and stuff and not much furthering the plot but next chapter the story will pick up. I promise!**


	7. 6-and-a-half - Sick

**A/N: I thought of this while I was sick and I wanted the reader to suffer with me, but once I began writing the other chapters, I completely forgot to put it in somewhere! And since it doesn't have much to do with the plot but I still wanted to write it, I slipped it in between two chapters. I give you, Chapter 6.5! :D **...except now the chapters will be screwed up -_-'

**Chapter 6.5 - ****_Sick_******

You cough into the bend of your arm and swallow another sip from your hot drink. You hate being sick, especially when it's so bad you can hardly move. Luckily you aren't working this weekend but you're not sure if your cold will be gone by Monday. And the worst of it all is that you don't have any means to fight this virus.

Suddenly an idea emerges from the fog of your hazy mind. _Sherlock might have some._

You retrieve your mobile from the coffee table without moving from your spot on the couch and dial Sherlock's number. After the third tone he answers. "Yes?"

"Sherlock, do you have any flu medicine or vitamins?"

"What for?"

"I'm sick, you idiot!" You pause to hack into your elbow, as if to prove your statement. "Why else would I need it?"

"I told you you shouldn't have walked back to the flat last night."

"You didn't tell me not to!" you defend yourself.

"Well I wasn't the one who suggested it." His reply is curt.

There's a moment of silence before you ask again, "Do you have any medicine or vitamins?"

There's an audible sigh on the other end of the line. "Yes. Are you going to come get them?"

"Actually, can you bring them to me? My door's unlocked. I can't exactly walk that far of a distance." Another cough.

"...Fine. Just give me a moment." With a click the conversation ends.

You replace your phone on the short table and tug your blanket over your shoulder. You blow a strand of hair away from your eyes and glance around your flat. It looks at least semi-presentable. Better than it usually would be if you weren't feeling well.

You toss what you can reach of your used tissues into the bin and wiggle farther into the protection of your comforter. It's so fluffy and warm. Maybe you can rest your eyes just for a couple minutes...

**~Sherlock's POV~**

Retrieving my supply of medicine required much more time than I expected. They were originally kept beside the refrigerator but I then remembered I had moved them so I could place my collection of acids in its own section.

Nevertheless, I find the medicine and bring it to (F/N)'s flat. Out of habit I knock on the door but after two minutes of silence I recall she said she had left it unlocked and I step through the entrance. I form a smirk as the swinging door reveals a sight I hadn't been expecting.

Lying on the settee, tucked underneath a duvet, is (F/N), asleep. The fabric slowly rises and falls to the pattern of her regulated breaths. Her shining hair fallen over her closed eyes.

My fingers twitch at my side.

I set the capsule on the short, wooden table beside her sleeping figure and swiftly pace to the door but pause in my actions. She _is asleep_. Unaware of what's going on around her- No! I will not give in to such petty temptations. She could awake any second and what would happen then? She's ill and needs rest...But even then.

After a series of arguments in my mind, I succumb to their efforts and stride next to (F/N) again. I glide the tip of my finger across her forehead, pushing her fringe from her face, and softly press my lips to the skin above her brow. She stirs only slightly from her position and I use the opportunity to quietly flee from the flat.

_You awake after a couple of hours and are left with the question if what you felt against your forehead before you completely fell asleep was real or only your imagination..._


End file.
